Breaking the Curse
by Clever Lass
Summary: Based on the Robert Englund film. Picks up right at the end, as the credits roll. What happens when Christine hears the street violinist playing Don Juan Triumphant? Warning: this one is fluffy. If you hate the idea of Englund fluff, skip it. COMPLETE.
1. A Visitation

_Author's Note: I just watched the Robert Englund version of Phantom last night and discovered this little story welling up inside me, that just couldn't be contained. The Robert Englund version is somewhat of a guilty pleasure, because every other part of it is rather on the abysmal side... but at the same time, Robert Englund himself is amazing in it! In the words of Ayezur from www. phantomfans. net, "... Is he the most heart-wrenching, wonderfully sexy, magnificently insane man I've seen in a long, long time? Oh my, yes. Yes, he is. ... Robert Englund as the Phantom doesn't steal the show. He seduces it and makes sweet, sweet love to it all night long until he is its unquestioned lord and master. He inhabits the Phantom..." She's right; I couldn't agree more._

_He **owns** that film, dominates every scene that he's in, and is nothing short of bloody marvellous... pun intended. He even did all his own organ and violin playing. And I just felt so bad for his character, during the "Faust" scene when it flashed back to his selling his soul so that his music would survive. This fic is based on the characterization during, and just prior to, his selling-his-soul scene (so don't be expecting grisly murders, or even a lot of edginess here, 'cause you won't find it and I don't want you to be disappointed). He seemed so sweet in that scene, so innocent, that I wanted to give the poor chap a happier ending. Here it is._

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**Breaking the Curse**

**Chapter 1: A Visitation**

Christine Day nodded to the street violinist and continued down the street. He played well, and even after the recent horror of her experience with Erik Destler, she maintained a soft spot in her heart for a well-played violin.

Suddenly the melody changed, and she faltered, stumbling a little. That bridge, that high, soaring single note, it sounded almost like the opening to _Don Juan Triumphant_.

Then the melody continued and she froze, not daring to look back at him. It was _his_ song, _his_ music. Even as her heart hammered in her throat, her mind clinically supplied the words, "…there's so much you could come to love…"

Christine turned back to the violinist who now stood in the centre of the street, ignored by passers-by, playing for her ears alone. His head was tipped down over his instrument, his face obscured by the wide brim of his hat.

How could he still be alive? She had killed him twice over, and destroyed his music as well. She could walk away now, and he would continue to haunt her—whether in truth, or only in her mind—for the rest of her life. Or she could take the infinitely more dreadful and terrifying option, and go back to confront him.

Fear marking her every step, she turned around. Her heart felt like a dead weight in her chest, she was so filled with dread. Her feet felt leaded; she lifted first one, then the other, setting them down marginally closer to the violinist each time, and had to work so hard to do it that she was perspiring.

Then the violinist lifted his head to meet her gaze, and her blood ran cold.

It was he.

He went on playing, stepping casually over his violin case, taking one step towards her and then another. She stopped dead, filled with apprehension, as he got closer to her.

And then, inexplicably, he stopped. He drew out the final note of the song, longer and longer until Christine felt like screaming with the exquisite tension of it, and then, abruptly, he stopped.

He lowered the violin and the bow, took off his hat, and bowed to her.

It was a nice bow, natural and well-executed, and for just an instant Christine flashed back to her time in Victorian London, where gentlemen bowed like that all the time. She had to stop her natural reflex to curtsey in return. It would have looked ridiculous in a miniskirt anyway.

Then he turned on his heel, returned to his spot, and knelt to put away his violin. He handled it lovingly, caressing the rich, dark wood of its neck. Christine swallowed, uncomfortably reminded of the sensation of those gentle hands on her sensitive, heated flesh the night he had claimed her as his bride. She took one step closer.

And then the violinist picked up his case and walked away into the crowd.


	2. An Explanation

**Breaking the Curse**

**Chapter 2: The Explanation**

Without knowing what she did, Christine ran after him. She found her voice and called, "Stop! Wait! Please!" She pushed her way through the crowds, heedless of the others, shoving them aside ruthlessly until finally she reached a clear spot and saw him.

"Wait!" she cried.

He did not slow down.

"Wait, please!" Christine cried, nearly sobbing. "Erik!"

The sound of his name made him stop and turn. He gave her a quizzical look as she ran up to him, a lovely, breathless girl with a glossy fringe of hair shadowing her wide, panicked eyes.

He took off his hat. "Good evening, miss," he said finally, in that low, smooth voice that she still heard in her dreams every night. Or were they nightmares?

"Erik," was all she could say.

"How do you know my name?"

Christine stared at him, dumfounded. "Erik. Erik Destler."

He bowed again, another natural and well-practiced one. "At your service, miss, but you have the advantage of me. Have we met?"

"I'm Christine," she blurted, as if that would explain everything. "Christine Day."

Erik shrugged and said, "It's nice to meet you, Christine Day. I'm Erik—but then, you already knew that. _How_ you knew it is evidently going to remain a mystery." He smiled.

"How—how did you know that music?" Christine asked wildly.

"I wrote it."

"But you played it… for me."

He nodded. "You stopped and listened to me. I just felt—I don't know. I felt some sort of kinship with you right then, and I thought all of a sudden that here was someone who would be able to appreciate something of mine. I wanted to… give you something."

"So, are you him, or not?"

"Depends on who you think I am."

"The devil!" Christine retorted.

She was taken aback by his burst of merry laughter. "If you're trying to compliment my work, Christine, I'm flattered. But no, I have no supernatural abilities to play or compose. I'm just me."

"But—that piece. _Don Juan Triumphant_. I destroyed it. I know I did!"

He jerked his head in surprise. "How did you know the name of it?" He shook his head. "I don't care how badly you play, you couldn't have destroyed it; I'm the only one who has ever performed it. Just now, when you walked away. I just finished it."

Christine blinked in confusion, so troubled that her eyes shone with tears. It was he—she _knew_ it was he—but why didn't he recognize her? Why didn't he _remember_?

Despite his obvious bewilderment, he saw her distress and took pity on her. "It looks as if we have some things to talk about, huh? Come on, Christine. We'll go grab a coffee or something, and see if we can solve some of these little mysteries."

Christine bit her lip and gave him a shaky nod. He offered his arm—again with a flash of that old-world elegance—and gingerly she tucked her hand beneath his elbow.

The café he brought her to was a little out-of-the-way, not so brightly-lit as some of the more well-known places. They selected a table in the far corner, and Christine took off her coat and looked around. "Nice little place," she commented.

He nodded, pulling out her chair for her and taking her coat. "Coffee's not bad either." He hung up her coat and sat down. "Are you hungry?"

She nodded, a little reluctantly. This was surreal. She had stabbed this man and torn off his face only days before, shot him and set him on fire shortly before that. It was therefore more than a little bit odd, now, to be sitting down to coffee with him as if they were on a date.

The waitress came by and Erik ordered for them both, two vanilla cappuccinos and two slices of carrot cake. "Is that all right?"

"Sounds good," Christine replied.

The waitress left, and Erik smiled across the table at her. "Now, then. Tell me how you know my name and my music."

Christine took a deep breath. On one of his fingers sparkled a plain black and silverring that she recognized. She reached out and took his hand, turning it so she could see the ring more clearly. He looked surprised, but let her.

Lightly tracing the ring with one finger, she met his gaze evenly. "Do you swear to me that you don't know who I am?"

He curled his fingers around hers, and nodded. "I've never seen you in my life before tonight. And when I saw you, I felt… oh, but that's stupid. Never mind."

"No, tell me," Christine urged.

"I felt like we had some connection, as if you and I…" He faltered and looked away.

"What? As if we what?"she asked.

"As if we… belonged together," he finished, obviously uncomfortable. "I know that sounds scary and stalkerish, and I swear I'm _not_ scary and stalkerish. But that's what made me start playing my own composition for you. And then I got scared by the feeling, so Ipacked up and left. But you followed me, and you called out for me." He swallowed nervously. "How'd you know my name, Christine?"

"I've met you before," she told him. "I don't know whether I travelled in time, or whether I got reincarnated and remembered a past life, or what… but I've already known you a long time."

Erik's forehead wrinkled. "Wow. That's… stranger than I was expecting." He studied her with his pale, grey-green eyes.

She nodded.

He waited until the waitress had come, delivered their food, and gone again before asking, "So you've known me in other… 'incarnations,' then? Was I a decent fellow?"

Slowly Christine shook her head.

Erik raised his eyebrows. "Well, that's honest anyway. So what happened? What did I do?"

Christine picked up her coffee in a shaking hand and took a sip. She tried to call to mind all she had heard from Richard about the "phantom." She took a deep breath. "You sold your soul to the devil for the sake of your music, and in return he ruined your face. You hid out under the London Opera House, haunting it like a ghost and occasionally killing people and skinning them so you could sew up masks for yourself. And then I came, and you became obsessed with me."

"Lucky you," Erik replied lightly, putting a forkful of carrot cake into his mouth. "I sound like quite the charmer. Then what happened?"

His easy manner comforted Christine a little, and she took a bite of her own cake before continuing. "You started tutoring me withmy singing. I was in a depression after my father died, and you helped me come out of it. But I still never saw you. Then you killed one of the stagehands and put him in the diva's closet—she was so hysterical she couldn't go on. I sang instead, and did pretty well, except one of the critics didn't like me. You killed the critic and kidnapped me from my father's grave. Then you put a ring on my finger—this ring," she tapped it with her forefinger, "---and told me I was married to the music, and not to see anyone else."

"A reasonable expectation for a married woman," he remarked, hiding his smile behind his coffee cup. "Then what?"

He's humouring me, Christine realized, mortified. Have I really met him before? Maybe I just heard him playing in the street once before, and just dreamed up all the rest of it.

Nevertheless, she'd come too far not to continue with the story. "Then, when I went to the Masquerade Ball and spoke with Richard, my fiancé, you kidnapped me and dragged me back down to your house beneath the sewers." She paused, remembering. "You also killed the diva that night, and stuffed her head into the soup pot."

Erik couldn't control himself any longer, and let out a shout of laughter. "I did _what?"_

"You did! It was awful. And—and revolting," Christine said weakly. Erik's laughter was contagious; she felt the most damnable urge to chuckle herself. Carlotta _had_ been rather horrible to her, she recalled. Unbidden, a smile curled one corner of her mouth. "The footman was just stirring the soup, and suddenly there was her head, floating to the top like a bit of crap in a toilet."

Erik had taken a sip of his coffee, and nearly sprayed it. He gulped hastily, and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "You have quite a descriptive way with words, you know," he told her with a broad grin. "So what other atrocities did I commit? I sound imaginative, if nothing else."

"You killed all the policemen that came down after you, and you stabbed Richard and set him on fire."

"Perhaps I was jealous," he suggested impishly.

"Duh. You think?" Christine asked. She took another bite of cake, chewed it carefully and swallowed it, washing it down with her coffee.

"So there we were, in my house beneath the sewers, and I've just offed your fiancé and all the cops who were chasing me. What happened next?"

"Then you came after me, and I shot you with the Inspector's gun and set you on fire."

Erik nodded decisively, shovelling the last forkful of cake into his mouth. "Don't blame you a bit. I'd have done the same thing in your shoes. Then what?"

"Then the episode ended, and I woke up here again right after my audition, when I sang a piece from _Don Juan Triumphant_. You were _there_, too, looking all rich and modern, and offered me the part. You took me back to your place, and while you were changing to take me out for the evening I found _Don Juan Triumphant_ on your computer and realized the producer of the play was really you. You came back into the room, and told me that love and music were forever."

"Hm, that's a good line. Did I have any more of those?"

Christine smiled then, in spite of her discomfort. There had been a few. "When I asked if you were going to kill me, you told me that everyone dies; you only chose the time and place for a few. And earlier, you had told me that desire is only a demon, and that hell is getting what you desire."

"Ooo!" Erik said, clearly impressed. "I'll have to write that one down. Perhaps it will make it into the _Don Juan_ libretto. So what did you do when you realized it was me?"

"I tore off your fake face, and you were all disgusting and maggoty underneath. Then I stabbed you," she said baldly. "I stole your music, tore it up, and dumped it into the sewer. That was about a week ago. Then, tonight I was walking down the street, and there you were playing that same song."

"And the rest, as they say, is history," Erik quoted. He finished his coffee and motioned to the waitress for another. "Refill?"

"Yes, thanks."

"So the question is, what do we do with this rather… sordid and terrifying tale?" He tried not to smile, but Christine could see his mouth twitch.

She sighed. "I don't know. I still don't fully believe you when you say you don't remember all this."

"As I don't fully believe you when you tell me all this," he replied evenly. "I'm considering calling the men in the white coats to come and get you."

She did laugh then. "I wouldn't blame you. But how do you explain the fact that I auditioned with your piece?"

He paused and put his cup down. "Wait a minute. You said you _sang_ it?"

She nodded.

He frowned, crumpling up his napkin. "I haven't written any words for it yet."

"I know them, though. I could sing them for you."

His pale green eyes alight with interest, he nodded eagerly. "Let's get out of here; there's a little park a couple blocks away." He grinned. "Don't worry, it's fairly well-lighted. And considering the story you told me, you probably won't believe me when I tell you I'm not a serial killer."

"Not in the least," Christine told him firmly. Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later, and why put off the inevitable? "Let's go." Erik dropped a ten-dollar note on the table and went and got her coat.

The park was little more than a half a block of green lawn, with a couple of benches and (Christine was glad to see) three streetlights illuminating the majority of it. There was a gazebo, and they both headed towards it in one accord. Erik put his violin case down on the bench inside, tossed his hat down next to it, and took out the violin.

"Now, then," he said, and began playing. The high, soaring introduction bridged smoothly into the opening bars of the melody.

Heart pounding, Christine took a deep breath and began singing.

"_Your eyes see but my shadow,_

_My heart is overflowing._

_There's so much you could come to love,_

_You're not content knowing,_

_Tenderly,_

_You could see_

_My soul!"_

She opened her eyes to see Erik staring at her, open-mouthed, every line of his body tensed with shock. He did not speak for several minutes, and when he did his voice sounded strained as he spoke her name. "_Christine_."

He remembered.


	3. The Resolution

**Breaking the Curse**

**Chapter 3: The Resolution**

He remembered her. She could tell; the spark of recognition flared in his eyes and showed in the tone of his voice. "Christine," he said again. He swallowed painfully. "It's true."

"Yes." Her voice was flat.

"It's all true," he repeated in wonder, never taking his eyes off her.

"It's all true," she confirmed. She backed up a step. "Are—are you going to kill me now?"

He shook his head, more in confusion than negation. "Considering our history, I should be asking you that."

"What… what is this, then? Are we reincarnations? Time travellers? What are we?"

"Destined for each other," Erik replied softly. He shook his head once, firmly, and bent to put away his violin again. "We're reincarnations, I suspect, as I can remember every minute of my life to date—and it's only been twenty-four years. But…" He looked down at his own hands in distaste. "I can remember all the murders, too."

"So what happened? Why is it different this time?" Christine pressed.

"I don't know. The deal was that Old Scratchwould own my soul for as long as my music lasted, so maybe you broke the cycleor something. This is my real face, though; I've never worn a mask, nor needed one, in this life at least. I've certainly never killed anyone, although I did carefully plan out the murder of my first violin teacher when I was eight."

Taut with nervous tension, Christine was forced to smile. "I had a vocal coach like that, too."

"You sing beautifully."

"Thank you; you play very well."

"That's what _he_ said."

"Who?"

"Him. Old Scratch, when he burned off my face. He told me that if I gave him my soul, I'd always be remembered for my music. As long as my music survived, he would own me."

"I'll bet that's it," Christine said thoughtfully.

"That's what?"

"I destroyed your music last time, Erik. I ripped up the printouts, drowned the floppy disk, and killed you in your own house. Then I went home and burned up your manuscript that I had used to practice with. I don't think there are even any copies still kicking around. Your music didn't survive, so maybe he doesn't own you anymore."

"Huh."

"Yeah."

"That'd be nice. I used to like to go to church when I was a kid. Be kind of pointless to do that, if the devil already owned my soul."

"True."

"One thing I don't understand, though. How could you have killed me and destroyed my music just a few days ago? Were there two Erik Destlers, who both composed the same melodies? How could that have happened?"

Christine shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe my destroying your music rewrote history or something. I somehow doubt whether there could have been two of you at the same time. Oh, and plus you said you hadn't written any words for yours yet."

"Hmm. Kinda deep, huh? Confusing."

"Yeah." There was a long pause, and then Christine asked, "So what do we do now?

"I don't know. Wait, yes I do." He grinned at her, green eyes sparkling in the light from the streetlamps. "Since in this incarnation I don't appear to be psychopathic, majorly deformed, or a serial killer, this might be a good time to ask you if you're seeing anyone."

"Uh, no," Christine blurted out in shock. "Not right now."

"Then how about this idea: How about if you and I start over, pretend we don't have this terrifying and sanguineous past together, and you let me take you out to dinner tomorrow evening?"

Christine shrugged, revisited by her earlier thought of why put off the inevitable? "Okay. That sounds like a good idea."

Erik smiled and offered her his arm as they left the gazebo and started back toward the busy streets. "Good. And if we notice any signs of history repeating itself, we can take steps to prevent it."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, for instance, if my face starts rotting off, or if I start killing everyone who doesn't like your singing—even though they'd deserve it—or if I start experimenting a little too much with my cooking recipes…"

He grinned, and Christine felt a bit of a laugh bubble up and out of her before she could stop it. "If you serve me up Carlotta's-head-soup, I'm gonna get miffed with you."

"No Carlotta's-head-soup," he said, crossing his heart. "I swear it. As I was saying, though, if you see me doing something weird, that gives you déjà-vu, you have my full permission to knock me off me again. Maybe I'll have learned better by the next time around."

"I'm hoping that we'll find out your curse is broken, and that we'll be allowed to finish out this round, actually."

He nodded. "That'd be nice. We've never been allowed to finish the story before."

Christine scoffed. "Yeah, but somehow, _'and the beautiful young ingénue gave in and ended up spending her days with the maggot-faced spawn of the devil, and they both lived hellishly ever after'_ just doesn't seem as romantic as it could."

He chuckled. "I was right; you do have a descriptive way with words. But I have a better ending for the story."

"What's that?"

"How about _'and the beautiful, talented singer and the man with the haunted past were finally able to break their cycle of torment; they found love together, and finished out their days living as normal people do.'_ Is that better?"

"It is. But you forgot the part about the two of them making music together that the world would never forget."

"No, I didn't," Erik said soberly. "I think I've learned my lesson about wanting my music to be immortal." He stopped suddenly, and took Christine's hand, bending over it to touch his lips to her knuckles. "I remember telling you that only love and music are forever. I chose music last time, and it damned me for centuries. Given the option, I choose love this time, and the music can go to hell."

Drawn by his inexplicable appeal, just as she always had been before, Christine reached up and touched the (real!) skin of his face. "Then I choose love as well."

Erik's green eyes darkened with emotion. "Christine! Do you mean it?" His grip tightened on hers in his intensity, and his black ring cut into her fingers a little.

"Erik, your ring," Christine protested… and then stopped, staring.

Erik caught her gaze and looked down at his hand.

His black ring was melting, shrivelling up until it was little more than a silver threadaround his finger. Then it it broke of its own accord and what was left of it fell into the glass.

"That was it, Christine," Erik told her quietly. "That was the symbol of Old Nick owning my soul. It's gone. I'm free."

Christine looked up at him with a smile, and tucked her arm through his again. On an impulse, she reached up and kissed his cheek. "Then we really can start over now."

Erik set down his violin case and turned toward Christine, taking both her hands in his. He lowered his lips to hers, a brief caress of their mouths. "Hello," he said, simply. "My name is Erik Destler."

"Hi, Erik," Christine replied. "I'm Christine." And she slipped her arms up around his neck, and felt his arms come around her in return, and she knew. This was where she belonged. After so many violent, tumultuous lifetimes, they had finally come home to each other to start afresh.

_

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Bet no one thought it was possible to make Robert Englund's Erik fluffy! But hey, in that piano-playing scene, he already was; I just took that characterization and ran with it.

Edited since its initial posting to clarify one or two things.

Comments are always welcome. Thanks for reading.


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